Authors: Thomas McGuane
Dave kept on studying the menu to avoid the stranger’s gaze and then resorted to making notes about this and that on the pad from his shirt pocket.
The waitress, a yellow pencil stuck in her chignon, arrived with his bacon and eggs. Dave gave her a welcoming smile in the hope that when he looked that way again, the man would be gone. But there he was still, now giving Dave a facetious military salute, then holding his nose against some imaginary stink. The meaning of these gestures eluded Dave, who was disquieted by the suggestion that he and this stranger knew each other. He ate and went to the counter to pay, so quickly the waitress came out from the kitchen still wiping her hands on a dishcloth and said, “Everything okay, Dave?”
“Yes, very good, thanks.”
“Put it away in an awful hurry. Out to Larsen’s?”
“No, I was there yesterday. Bred heifers. They held everything back.”
“They’re big on next year. I wonder if it does them any good.”
“Well, they’re still in business, ain’t they? No, I’m headed for Jorgensen’s. Big day.”
Two of the ranchers, done eating, leaned in their chairs, their Stetsons back on their heads while they picked their teeth with the corners of the menus. As Dave pushed his wallet into his back pocket he realized he was being followed to the door. He didn’t turn until halfway across the parking lot. When he did, the gun was in his belly, and his new friend was in his face. “Ray. Where’s your ride?”
“You robbing me?”
“I just need a lift, amigo.”
Ray got in the front seat of Dave’s car, tucked the gun into his pants, and pulled his shirt over it, a blue terry-cloth shirt with a large breast pocket full of ballpoint pens. The top flap of the pocket liner was courtesy of “Powell Savings, Modesto, CA.”
“Nice car. What’re all the files in back?”
“Breeding records, cattle-breeding records.”
“Mind?” Without awaiting an answer, he picked up Dave’s cell phone and began tapping in a number. In a moment, his voice changed to an intimate murmur. “I’m here, or almost here,” he said, covering the mouthpiece as he pointed to the intersection: “Take that one right there.” Dave turned east at the intersection. “I got it wrote down someplace, east two hundred, north thirteen, but give it to me again, my angel. Or I can call you as we get closer … No cell service! Starting where? Never mind, a friend’s giving me a lift”—again he covered the mouthpiece—“your name?”
“David.”
“From?”
“Reed Point.”
“Yeah, great guy, Dave, I knew back in Reed Place.”
“Reed Point.”
“I mean, Reed Point. Left the Quattro for an oil change, and Dave said he was headed this way. Wouldn’t even let me split the gas … So, okay, just leaving Jordan now. How much longer is that gonna be, Morsel?… Two hours! Are you kidding?… Yeah, right, okay, got it, I’m just anxious to see you, baby, not being short with you at all.”
Ray turned away and murmured softly, lovingly, and then lifting his eyes to the empty miles of sagebrush, snapped shut the phone and sighed. “Two fucking hours.” Except for the gun in his pants, Ray could have been any other impatient lovebird. He turned the radio on:
Swap Shop
was playing: “Broken refrigerator suitable for a smoker.” Babies bawling in the background. He turned it off. Dave was trying to guess if he was a fugitive, someone Dave could bring to justice for a reward or just the fame, which might be good for business. He had tried every other promotional gambit, including refrigerator magnets with his face beside the slogan
DON’T GO BUST SHIPPING DRIES
.
“Wanna pick up the tempo here? You’re driving like my grandma.”
“This is not a great road. Deer jump out all the time. My cousin had one come through the windshield on him.”
“Fuckin’ pin it or I’ll take the wheel and drive it like I stole it.”
David sped up slightly. This seemed to placate Ray, who slumped against the side window and stared at the passing landscape.
An old pickup went by the other way with a dead animal in back, one upright leg trailing an American flag.
“Ray, do you feel like telling me what this is all about?”
“Sure, Dave, it’s all about you doing exactly as you’re told.”
“I see. And I’m taking you somewhere, am I?”
“Uh-huh, and waiting around as needed. Jesus Christ, if this isn’t the ugliest country I ever seen.”
“How did you pick me?”
“I didn’t pick you, I picked your car. You were a throw-in. If I hadn’t a took you along you’d of had to report it stolen. This way you still got it. It’s a win-win. The other lucky thing for you is you’re now my partner.”
The road followed Big Dry Creek, open range with occasional buttes, mostly to the north. “I guess this is the prairie out here, huh, Dave? It’s got a few things going for it: no blood on the ground, no chalk outlines, no police tape. Let’s hear it for the prairie!” Ray gaped around in dismay, then with rising irritation sought something that pleased him on the radio. After nearly two hours, passed mostly in silence, a light tail-dragger aircraft with red-and-white-banded wings overtook them and landed about a quarter of a mile down the road. The pilot climbed out and shuffled their way. Dave rolled down the window to reveal a weathered angular face in a cowboy hat, sweat stained above the brim. “You missed your turn. Mile back turn north on the two-track.” Ray seemed to be trying to convey a greeting that showed all his teeth but was ignored by the pilot. “Nice little Piper J-3 Cub,” Ray said, again ignored.
The pilot strode back to the plane and taxied straight down the road. Once airborne again, he banked sharply over a five-strand
barbed-wire fence, startling seven cows and their calves, which ran into the sage scattering clouds of pollen and meadowlarks.
Ray said, “Old fellow back at the hotel said there’s supposed to be a lot of dinosaurs around here.” He gazed at the pale light of a gas well on a far ridge.
“That’s what they say.”
“What d’you suppose one of them is worth, like a whole
Tyrannosaurus rex
?”
Dave just looked at Ray. They were coming on the two-track. It was barely manageable in an ordinary sedan. Dave couldn’t imagine how it was negotiated in winter or spring, when the way was full of the notorious local gumbo. He’d delivered a Charolais bull somewhere nearby one fall, and it was bad enough then. Plus, the bull tore up his trailer, and he’d lost money on the deal.
“So, Dave, now we’re about to arrive I should tell you what the gun is for. I’m here to meet a girl, but I don’t know how it’s gonna turn out. I may need to bail, and you’re my getaway. The story is, my car is in for maintenance. But you’re staying until we see how this is going, so you can carry me out of here if necessary.”
“Let’s say I understand, but what does this all depend on?”
“It depends on whether I like the girl or not, whether we’re compatible and want to start a family business. I have a lot I’d like to pass on to the next generation. Plus, I got a deal for her that’s even more important than the ro-mance.”
The next bend revealed the house, a two-story ranch building barely hanging on to its last few chips of paint. “He must have landed in that field!” said Dave while Ray gazed at the Montana state flag popping on an iron flagpole.
“Oro y plata.”
He chuckled. “Perfect. Now, Davey, I need you
to bone up on the situation here. This is Weldon Case’s cattle ranch, and it runs from here for the next forty miles or so of bad road that leads right into the Bakken oil field, which is where all the
oro y plata
is at the moment. I’m guessing that was Weldon in the airplane. I met his daughter Morsel through a dating service. Well, we haven’t actually met in person, but we’re about to. Morsel thinks she loves me, so we’re just gonna have to see about that. If she decides otherwise, she still may want to do the business deal. All you need to know is that Morsel thinks I’m an Audi dealer from Simi Valley, California. She’s going on one photograph of me standing in front of a flagship Audi. You decide you want to help, you may see more walkin’-around money than you’re used to. If you don’t, well, you’ve already seen how I make my wishes come true.” He patted the bulge of blue terry cloth.
Dave pulled up under the gaze of Weldon Case. Before turning off the engine, he saw Weldon call out over his shoulder to the house. Dave rolled down the windows, and the prairie wind rushed in. Weldon stared at the two visitors, returning their nearly simultaneous greetings with a mere nod. “It’s the cowboy way,” muttered Ray through a forced smile. “Or either he’s retarded. Dave, ask him if he remembers falling from his high chair.”
As they got out of the car, Morsel appeared on the front step and called out in a penetrating contralto, “Which one is he?” Dave emerged from the driver’s side affecting a formality he associated with chauffeurs. A small trash pile next to the porch featured a couple of spent Odor-Eaters. Ray climbed out gingerly, hiding himself with the door as long as he could, before
raising his hand and tilting his head coyly and finally calling to Morsel, “You’re looking at him.” Noting that the gun was now barely concealed, Dave quickly diverted attention by shaking Weldon’s hand. It was like seizing a plank. He told Weldon he was pleased to meet him, and Weldon said, “Likewise.” Dave lied about his own name, “Dave” all right, but the last name belonged to a rodeo clown two doors down from his mother’s house. He had never done such a thing in his life.
“Oh, Christ,” she yelled. “Is this what I get?” It was hard to say whether this was positive or not. Morsel was a scale model of her father, lean, wind weathered, and, if anything, less feminine. She raced forward to embrace Ray, whose chronic look of suave detachment was briefly interrupted by fear. A tooth was not there, as well as a small piece of her ear. “Oh, Ray!”
Weldon looked at Dave with a sour expression, and Dave, still in his chauffeur mind-set, acknowledged him formally as he fell into reverie about the money Ray had alluded to. But then Dave could see Weldon was about to speak. “Morsel has made some peach cobbler,” he said in a lusterless tone. “It was her ma’s recipe. Her ma is dead.” Ray put on a ghastly look of sympathy that persuaded Morsel, who squeezed his arm. “Started in her liver and just took off,” she explained. Dave, by now comfortable with his new alias, thought, I never knew “Ma” but good riddance. Going into the house, Weldon asked him if he enjoyed shooting coyotes.
“I just drive Ray around.” And observing Ray tuning in, he continued obligingly, “And whatever Ray wants I guess is what we do … whatever he’s into.” But to himself he said,
Good luck hitting anything with that shit pistol
.
He didn’t volunteer that he enjoyed popping the bastards out
his car window, his favorite gun the .25-06 with the Swarovski rangefinder scope and tripod he bought at Hill Country Customs. Dave lived with his mother and had always liked telling her of the great shots he’d made, like the five hundred yarder on Tin Can Hill with only the car hood for a rest, no sandbags or tripod. So much for his uncle Maury’s opinion: “It don’t shoot flat, throw the fuckin’ thing away.”
Dave, who also liked brutally fattening food, thought Morsel quite the cook. Ray, however, was a surprisingly picky eater, sticking with the salad, discreetly lifting each leaf until the dressing ran off. Weldon watched him with hardly a word, but Morsel grew ever more manic, jiggling with laughter and enthusiasm at each lighthearted remark. In fact, it was necessary to dial down the subjects—to heart attacks, highway wrecks, cancer, and the like—just to keep her from guffawing at everything. Weldon planted his hands flat on the table, rose partway, and announced he was going to use the tractor to tow the plane around back. Dave, preoccupied with the mountain of tuna casserole between him and the cobbler, hardly heard him. Ray, small and disoriented beside Morsel, shot a glance around the table looking for something else he could eat.
“Daddy don’t say much,” said Morsel.
“I can’t say much,” said Ray, “not with him here. Dave, you cut us a little slack?”
Dave, using his napkin to conceal a mouthful of food, managed to say, “Sure, Ray, of course.” Once on his feet, he made a lunge for the cobbler, but dropping the napkin he decided just to finish chewing what he already had.
“See you in the room,” Ray said sharply, twisting his chin toward the door.
Weldon had shown them where they’d sleep by flicking the door open without ceremony when they’d first walked past it. There were two iron bedsteads and a dresser atop which sat Dave’s and Ray’s belongings, the latter consisting of a JanSport backpack with the straps cut off. Dave was much the better equipped, with an actual overnight bag and Dopp kit. He had left the cattle receipts and breeding documents in the car. He flopped immediately onto the bed, hands behind his head, then got up abruptly and went to the door. He looked out and listened for a long moment and, easing it shut, darted for the dresser to root through Ray’s things. Among them he found several rolls of cash in rubber bands; generic Viagra from India; California lottery tickets; a passport in the name of Raymond Coelho; a lady’s wallet, aqua in color and containing one Louise Coelho’s driver’s license, as well as her debit card issued by the Food Processors Credit Union of Modesto; a few Turlock grocery receipts; a bag of trail mix; and of course the gun. Dave lifted it carefully with the tips of his fingers. He was startled by its lightness. Turning it over in his hand he saw that it was a fake. At first he couldn’t believe his eyes, but he was compelled to acknowledge that there was no hole in the barrel. A toy. Carefully returning it to where it was, he fluffed the sides of the backpack and leaped to his bunk to begin feigning sleep. He was supposed to be at Jorgensen’s by now, with his arm up some cow’s ass. But opportunity was in the air. He’d need to get rid of the smile if he wanted to look like he was asleep.
It wasn’t long before Ray came in, making no attempt to be quiet, singing “Now Is the Hour” in a flat and aggressive tone that hardly suited the lyrics, “ ‘Sunset glow fades in the west, /
Night o’er the valley is creeping! / Birds cuddle down in their nest, / Soon all the world will be sleeping.’ But not you, huh, Dave? Yeah, you’re awake, I can tell. We hope you enjoyed Morsel’s rendition of the song, lyrics by Hugo Winterhalter.”